


Picking Up The Pieces

by MissShawnaAlice



Series: Time Heals Everything [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt and comfort, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Parentlock, Reichenbach, The Fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissShawnaAlice/pseuds/MissShawnaAlice
Summary: John's husband can't be dead.He can't have just jumped off that building and left him a single father.Sherlock would never have done this; should never have done this.But he has... and now John is picking up the pieces.





	1. Descension

His husband was dead.

Not dying.

Not falling.

Deceased.

_John felt numb._

_“John? I’ve organised for Mrs Hudson to look after the girls for you. Are you alright?”_

His head felt heavy.

Heart like lead. 

_“Can you hear me John?”_

His last words still swirling through his mind, haunting his every breath…

“I’m on the rooftop.”

_Oh God._

“I ... I ... I can’t come down, so we’ll ... we’ll just have to do it like this. An apology. It’s all true.”

_Wh-what?_

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

_Why are you saying this?_

“I’m a fake.”

_Sherlock…_

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. Nobody could be that clever.”

 _You could._  

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.” 

_No. All right, stop it now._

“No, stay _exactly_ where you are. Don’t move.” 

_All right._

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

_Do what?_

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

 _Leave a note when?_  

“Goodbye, John.”

* * *

John woke up in his darkened bedroom, Jemima, Abigail, Violet and Indigo sleeping around him, tear streaks evident on their cheeks. John crept out of bed, laying his blanket back over his children before padding out of the bedroom. Mycroft was lying on his couch in his living room, looking decidedly ruffled around the edges, wearing a pair of flannel pyjamas. Greg was next to him, nursing Mycroft’s head in his lap, running gentle fingers through his hair, wearing a similar set of pyjamas.

_John wondered when that particular relationship had flourished._

He could hear Molly and Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, voices a low murmur.

“John,” whispered Mycroft, voice breaking.

“Don’t. Please.” John took a seat near the fireplace, wondering if he’d ever warm up again. Molly appeared, placing a sandwich on a plate next to John. Mrs Hudson handed him a cup of tea.

“John? I’m heading home for the night. Let me know if you need anything,” said Molly gently. John nodded, and Mrs Hudson followed Molly downstairs, leaving John with Mycroft and Greg.

“How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to look after a nine-year-old, two eight-year-olds and a four-year-old? They’re half Sherlock’s; I have to somehow manage their lives and still support our lifestyle, pay the rent, babysi…”

“The Holmes Foundation will cover any and _all_ costs,” replied Mycroft, face red, voice husky. John could barely recall a time when he’d seen Mycroft look so human, apart from when they found Abigail four years ago. 

_He thought that was hell; not now._

“We’ll be here for you mate, no matter what you need,” said Greg quietly.

“Are you sure you want to stay tonight?” Asked John, eyes pleading.

“We’ll stay. Don’t worry John,” responded Greg.

“Could… could you help me get the girls up to their own rooms?” Asked John. Greg nodded, standing up, Mycroft stretching behind him.

“Who do you want me to take?” Asked Greg.

“Take Indi. I’ll take Abb…”

“I’ll take her,” interrupted Mycroft.

“If you think you can carry a twenty eight kilo weight up the stairs, be my guest. I’ll take Vi. Leave Jemima; she’s been sleeping in here at night the past few weeks,” said John wearily. Mycroft and Greg nodded, picking up their charges and heading for the stairs. John brought up the rear, putting Vi in her bed and pulling the blankets up, making sure her plush beluga whale was tucked in beside her.

“Does Indi sleep with anything?” Asked Greg, watching as John kissed his daughter goodnight.

“Destiny,” replied John, straightening up. Greg looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“We saw Finding Dory six months ago, and Jemima, Indi and Vi have become obsessed. Destiny is the whale shark, and Bailey is the beluga whale. They were the two characters that the twins liked, and Sherlock…” John trailed off, voice failing him as his heart jumped into his chest, reminding him that Sherlock was no longer around. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“You right?” Asked Greg carefully.

“Yeah. Um, the lounge up here folds out into a double; you and Mycroft are welcome to stay up here. Sheets are in the linen cupboard, blankets in the chest in the corner. Good night,” said John curtly, heading down the stairs. He turned the corner into his own room, finding Jemima sitting up in bed, hair mussed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched her plush Dory.

“Daddy?” She asked tearfully. John’s heart finally broke at the sight of his devastated daughter, and he scooped her up, holding her close.

“No Puddle Duck, he’s not here. He’s gone to heaven with Mummy,” said John, rocking his daughter as she started to sob against his chest. He pulled the duvet up over the both of them, shushing the child in his arms as the warmth started to seep through. Jemima eventually settled, clutching John’s pyjamas tight, her other arm clutching Dory and her thumb tucked in her mouth. He kissed the top of her strawberry blonde curls as he drifted off to sleep, hoping that the events of the day were just a nightmare…

* * *

A child was screaming.

Which child was screaming?

 _Abigail_. 

Mycroft slid out of bed, careful to not wake Greg, and padded into Abigail’s bedroom. She was tangled in her blankets, hair plastered to her head, fighting an invisible intruder.

“Abby?” She shot up in bed, a sob caught in her throat, and clutched her uncle close, tears streaming down her face.

“He’s not dead. He can’t be dead,” she stuttered. Mycroft ran a surprisingly gentle hand through her hair, trying to calm her down.

“I’m sorry Abby. I’m so sorry,” apologised Mycroft. He held her close, reminded of their time together four years earlier, and lifted her carefully, pulling the tangled blankets over them. She held him close, sniffling occasionally, and he just kept his arms around her.

_Wishing he could tell the truth._

* * *

John awoke the next morning, stretching his arms out for Sherlock, hoping for a morning snuggle before their brood woke up.

He only found his youngest daughter next to him, and his heart sank.

_Sherlock was dead._

“Papa?” Asked Jemima sleepily.

“What is it Puddle?” Replied John, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.

“Can I have egg with soldiers for breakfast please?” She asked.

“Of course. Come on, let’s get up, see where your sisters are up to,” suggested John. Jemima slipped out of bed, into the loungeroom, Dory still tucked under her arm, and John heard the familiar theme tune from Spongebob Squarepants, Jemima’s current favourite show. John didn’t bother getting dressed, instead pulling on a dressing gown that still smelled like Sherlock, and slipped on a pair of slippers. He trundled up the stairs, heart heavy.

_My husband should be here._

_God, Sherlock, why did you jump?_

He found Greg still asleep on the fold-out, but Mycroft absent. He checked in on Vi and Indi, and found them asleep in Indi’s bed, holding each other close, and decided to leave them there for a while longer. He looked into Abby’s room, and found Mycroft still asleep, Abby next to him, evidence of a crying jag during the night. John crept in, lifting a blanket from the floor, and draped it over the elder Holmes brother.

_The only Holmes brother left._

John broke down and cried.

* * *

In an effort to resume life as normally as possible, John forced the girls back to school, back with young friends and safety, if not so he could have a moment of peace. Jemima was enrolled in a local nursery school, and after dropping her there after her sisters went to ‘big’ school, John felt like he finally had a moment of peace.

* * *

Mycroft and Greg were always around, keeping him company where possible, making sure he wasn’t alone, but after six weeks with both Lestrade and Holmes under his feet, John finally put his foot down and asked them to return to their own home.

_He could be the parent. He didn’t need them._

* * *

Two months after Sherlock’s death, John was called into City of London School for Girls, where Abby, Vi and Indi attended school. The headmistress sounded concerned yet stern over the phone, and John’s heart sank.

_What has his children done?_

“Sarah, I’m sorry I’ve got to leave, but something has happened at the girls’ school,” said John hurriedly, picking up his jacket from the back of his chair and tugging it on.

“It’s okay John. I’ll see your last patients for you. Hope everything’s okay,” reassured Sarah, shrugging on her white coat and heading for John’s office.

“I’ll let you know. Thanks Sarah.” John stepped outside the practice, and found an ominous dark car waiting for him. He sighed wearily, and took the offer of the ride, climbing into the back seat. Mycroft was sitting across from him, looking as prim and proper as always.

“John. You’re looking a little weary today,” commented Mycroft. 

“Fuck off Mycroft. Why are you even here?” Snapped John.

“I endeavour to be a part of my nieces lives John, and if that includes ferrying you to an appointment with the headmistress, then that’s what it will entail,” responded Mycroft smoothly. John sighed, rubbing his temples before looking at his brother in law.

“Thank you.” He glanced out the window, watching as the buildings passed before they pulled up in front of City. John looked up at the imposing building before heading inside, Mycroft following him. The receptionist waved him through to the headmistresses office, finding Abigail sitting on the bench outside her office, looking forlorn, tissues held to her clearly bleeding nose. Indigo was beside her, a cut to her lower lip, skin bruising, eye blackening. Violet wasn’t with them, and John’s heart hammered in his chest at the absence of one of his daughters. Mrs Williamson, the head of Preparatory, indicated for John to enter the office.

“Mr Watson-Holmes, please come inside.” He stepped inside, feeling like his world was caving in around him, and glanced at the headmistress herself. Mrs Williamson stood to the side, the door ajar so she could still supervise Indigo and Abigail.

“John, I am very sorry to have to call you in like this, but there has been an altercation between Abigail and a few of the girls in grade six. Abigail implied that they had been cheating in one of their tests, and one of the girls retaliated violently. Indigo and Violet came to her assistance, and Violet’s arm appears to have been broken. We are organising to take her to St Bart’s for an X-ray,” explained Miss Singleton.

“Was she right?” Asked John quietly.

“Well, yes, but that is beside the point John. She doesn’t have the right to just provoke another student!” Exclaimed the headmistress.

“She wouldn’t have seen it like that. She would have been pointing out to her what seemed obvious. She is Sherlock Holmes’ daughter; of course she’s going to point out what she sees. Is she being punished?” Asked John sharply.

“She provoked another student!” 

“Who attacked both her and her sisters!” John stopped, putting a hand down on the desk.

_He needed Sherlock._

“Can I take them home?” He asked quietly.

“They are to be suspended for a week. Mrs Williamson has set them lines to complete whilst they are away,” replied Miss Singleton.

“Fine.” John stepped out of the office, looking white as a sheet, and Mycroft straightened up.

“Give me a moment John, and then we will collect Violet,” said Mycroft firmly. He stepped into the office, closing the door, leaving John with two very upset little girls. 

“Let me see,” said John softly, pulling Abby’s hand away from her nose. After a careful examination, he surmised that it was probably broken, but not severely. He glanced across to look at Indigo, who had handprint shaped bruises around the tops of her arms, and checked her split lip and bruising eye. He kissed the top of her head, trying to reassure her, and held the hand of each girl.

“When we get home, I’d like you to explain what happened,” said John quietly. Abby nodded, wincing as her nose was jostled. After a few moments, Mycroft stepped back out of the office, and closed the door.

“Greg is going to meet us here with Detective Sergeant Donovan, and will then accompany us to the hospital. I’d like to press charges,” said Mycroft tightly.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Asked John hesitantly. Mycroft nodded, and John could see the Holmes intellect working away.

_Mycroft had seen something that John had not._

“Miss Hooper is going to collect Jemima from nursery school and take her back to St Bart’s. We will meet her there.” Mycroft turned away and headed for the nurses office, down the opposite corridor. John ushered the girls after him, and entered the nurses office. 

_He wasn’t prepared for what he saw._

Violet was laying on the tiny bed, face pale while a school nurse handled her potentially broken arm, and John felt his blood boil.

“Papa,” she pleaded, voice strained.

“Have you ever handled a broken arm before? Have you ever had one yourself, felt the bones grinding under your skin and hoped to God that you didn’t throw up or die from the pain? Stop. Touching. Violet,” snarled John. The nurse released Violet’s arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the eight-year-old, and backed away.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered.

“Get out,” snapped John. He stepped into the office, a gentle hand stroking Violet’s bruised face.

“Papa, it hurts,” she whimpered.

“I’ll help make it better, okay? It might hurt a little bit now, and then once we get to St Bart’s, we will get it all properly fixed up, alright?” Explained John. She nodded, and allowed John to carefully splint the limb, stealing supplies from the nurse’s stash. 

“I’ll be back momentarily; Greg has arrived,” said Mycroft softly, leaving the small family alone for a brief moment. John finished up, and allowed Violet to sit up carefully. She leaned against John heavily, clearly exhausted, and his heart broke at the sight of three of his girls, clearly injured. Mycroft returned with Greg, who gasped at the sight of the girls, but kept his opinions under wraps.

“Greg will accompany us in my car, and will take statements from all three girls this evening,” explained Mycroft.

“Greg, could you get onto Christian and Imogen please? I’d like them to be the ones to look over the girls when we get there, and I’d really rather we don’t have to wait,” said John evenly. Greg nodded, pulling out his phone to make the necessary call. John looked at Violet, tilting her head up to meet her eyes. “Do you think you can walk, or would you like to be carried?”

“Carried,” she answered. John lifted her carefully, and headed for the door, Abigail and Indigo behind him, Mycroft and Greg bringing up the rear. Mycroft’s driver Benjamin opened the door, and John slid in carefully, still cradling Violet. Indigo and Abigail squished in beside him, and Mycroft and Greg sat across from him. The trip to St Bart’s was silent, punctuated by the occasional sniffle or hiccup. When they arrived, Christian and Imogen were waiting for them, and ushered them into a double examination room, space for all of them to fit inside.

“What happened?” Asked Christian, examining Violet, Imogen disappearing from the room. Abigail glanced at John, and he nodded.

“I overheard one of the sixth class girls talking about how she’d found the answers to a test, but she said she didn’t use them. Based on her body language cues that Daddy taught me about, I deduced that she was lying, and I told her so. She turned around, and she was very angry, and she started to hit me, yelling that I was the child of poofs, which meant I was one too. I tried to fight her off, but she’s bigger than me. I head-butted her, and then I don’t remember what happened,” started Abigail. Imogen returned with the portable X-ray just as John turned and looked at Indigo for an explanation.

“Violet and me ran to help. Penny is really big, and her friends are really tall. One of her friends hit me in the face, and another one held me tight. She hurt me. And then Penny was so angry that she hit Vi and pushed over and stood on her arm, and then Mrs Williamson took us to the nurses office and called you. She didn’t ask what happened Papa, she just said she was calling you and we were in big trouble,” whimpered Indigo. Christian looked at the pictures he had taken of Violet’s arm, the X-ray on the light box.

“And who exactly is Penny?” Asked John, arms folded across his chest. Imogen looked at Indigo’s split lip, cleansing it as she winced.

“Penelope Williamson, eleven years old, overweight, mother is the head of preparatory, has strong family values based on the Catholic religion,” said Abigail, refusing to look up. 

“She’s the daughter of the head of prep?” Exclaimed Greg angrily. Mycroft laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, calming him down.

“She’ll be dealt with in due course. For now, let us make sure that the girls will be okay.”


	2. Serbia

John sat in his living room, head in his hands, wishing that Sherlock were still beside him.

_His world was slowly falling away._

Violet had a Torus Fracture, still requiring a cast, and upon her request, Christian and Imogen had made sure it was purple. Abigail’s nose was indeed broken, but did not require resetting, however her blackened eyes would tell a different tale later. Indigo’s bruising would subside over time, but John could see how shaken she was, that someone could willingly cause her harm. They were upstairs, sleeping, the hour late, Mycroft and Greg still sitting in the living room with him, Jemima having been put to bed moments ago.

“I thought you vetted that school,” said John evenly.

“I did vet the school. Perhaps not thoroughly enough,” responded Mycroft.

“Perhaps not. I always knew she’d be like Sherlock; she’s always ‘deducing’ things, getting herself into trouble, alienating herself from everyone else. She loved spending time with him because they were on the same level, a constant understanding. Now he’s gone, and she doesn’t understand that she needs to restrain herself from just opening her mouth,” snapped John. He felt lethargic, tired, exhausted of trying to handle this. Sherlock had been dead for two months, and John was feeling weary with the effort of carrying on.

“I’m sorry John,” apologised Greg. John stood up, surprisingly steady despite the dizziness in his head.

“Please, leave. I need to get some sleep.” Greg and Mycroft looked surprised, and stood up, leaving John to his own traitorous thoughts.

_He left you._

* * *

It started with a morning of nausea, a cold cup of tea sitting slick in his stomach. It was five months after Sherlock’s incident. He helped Greg catch a burglar, but not after the bloke had landed some very solid punches to his chest.

_Cracked ribs, possible lung injury._

_Irrelevant._  

Six and a half months later, and John had lost nearly three kilograms from nausea and loss of appetite.

_The limp was back, a hint of infection in a knife wound he’d neglected to inform Lestrade of._

_Unimportant._

Nine months later, and his skin was hanging from his frame, barely any muscle or fat to support his body’s needs.

_Fever, infection, low blood sugar, lack of sleep, stress; all caused by him._

Still he soldiered on, trying to keep life as normal as possible for the four girls he loved and adored.

* * *

John stood at the kitchen sink, trying to stop his stomach from roiling, and fumbled for his phone, tapping out a short but curt message. He heard tiny footsteps behind him, pulling out a chair at the table.

“Papa?” Asked Jemima, pushing the chair over to John. She clamoured up, standing next to him.

“What is it Puddle?”

“You look sick,” she stated, looking up at him, concern in her green eyes.

“I’m fine Puddle. Are you ready for nursery school? Uncle Mycroft is going to drop you off today,” explained John, keeping his voice as steady as possible. The flat door opened, and John could hear Mycroft’s footfalls, and surprisingly, Greg’s just behind him.

“Uncle Mycroft! Uncle Greg!” Exclaimed Jemima. She hopped down from the chair, sprinting into the living room. John clutched the edge of the sink tightly, listening to his youngest converse with her uncle, and hoped to God he wouldn’t faint now. Greg’s footsteps led him to the kitchen, where he found John, pale as a ghost, sweat beading on his brow, tiny tremors racing through his body.

“Christ John,” breathed Greg. John’s body took that as a sign to let go, and his eyes rolled back into his head, dropping to the floor like a rock.

“My? Mycroft!” Called Greg, rolling John into the recovery position as he threw up.

“I’ll call an ambulance. Will you be alright here with him? I’ll take the girls out of the flat, get them to school,” decided Mycroft.

“I’ll be fine,” reassured Greg. Mycroft looked torn, but turned his attention to the girls who were trampling down the stairs.

“Come on, let’s get you to school, otherwise you’ll be late,” said Mycroft easily. Abigail hesitated, hearing the note of an omission in her uncle’s voice, but didn’t question it. She’d watched her father collapse into illness, and was glad that two adults had finally stepped in to assist. Indigo and Violet were unaware of what was going on, and Jemima was excited to see her uncle, filling the uncomfortable silence with chatter about school. Abigail caught her uncle’s gaze, and he nodded once, aware of her knowledge. 

“Come on, let’s go,” she added. Mycroft led them out the door, and Greg heard it close.

“Christ John, what have you done to yourself?” Asked Greg softly. He heard another knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson opened it. After a few moments of whispered conversation, Greg heard the steps creak as two paramedics and Christian appeared.

“Mycroft has you on speed dial,” commented Greg.

“It pays quite well. What happened?” Asked Christian.

“I don’t know; one minute he was standing, next he was on the floor, collapsed. He’s been coming out on cases, and he’s not really been himself,” admitted Greg. Christian pulled back John’s shirt, ripping it in his urgency to see.

“Fuck. Don’t do things by halves, do you John?” Exclaimed Christian. He proceeded to pull John’s pants down, and Greg had a brief moment of mourning for John’s modesty. That feeling was downplayed once he saw the extent of injuries littering John’s body; bruises, lacerations, track marks. Greg stood up, sickened at the sight of the injuries, and headed for the kitchen sink, throwing up his breakfast.

“Set him up on a litre of Hartmann’s, let the general surgeon know that we’re coming in. Dose him on maxolon for the nausea, and give him a loading dose of morphine, take the edge off the pain.” Christian stood up, allowing the paramedics in close, and pulled out his phone, viciously punching in the numbers.

“Mycroft speaking.”

“Why didn’t you tell me he was this bad?” Demanded Christian.

“I was unaw…” 

“Bullshit. He’s so thin Mycroft! Covered in injuries, new and old, it’s a surprise his immune system hasn’t just packed it in. I need to take him to hospital; you and Greg will have to manage his children,” retorted Christian.

“So be it. I’ll meet you at St Bart’s.” Christian hung up, holding a hand to his temple, calming himself.

“Mycroft being difficult?” Asked Greg blandly.

“No. No, look, you and Mycroft will have to look after the girls for a while. I need to take John to the hospital,” replied Christian.

“No hospital,” croaked John from the floor.

“You need the hospital mate; even Jemima can see you’re not well,” said Greg, squatting down so he could see John’s face.

“Hospital is where… where Sherlock died. I can’t, please,” begged John. He tried to pull himself upright, fighting the nausea, and Christian laid a gentle hand on his chest.

“Okay, calm down. I’ll organise something, okay? Just… just give me a second,” said Christian quietly. He stood up, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Mycroft speaking.”

“Mycroft, I need a nurse, mobile X-ray, pathology kit and IV fluids. I trust that your connections can get that for me,” demanded Christian.

“Anything else?” Asked Mycroft calmly, Anthea across from him, taking notes.

“I want to be on your payroll permanently. This could cost me my job at St Bart’s, and I can’t afford that,” replied Christian.

“I’ll bring your contract with me. I’ll be there shortly with supplies.” Mycroft ended the conversation. Christian looked up at the two men in front of him.

“Marty, Jack, could you help me get John to his bedroom please? After that, your services won’t be required,” said Christian quietly. Marty and Jack the paramedics looked a bit stunned, but helped Christian ease John up from the floor, taking him to the main bedroom. After a scribbled signature on paperwork, Marty and Jack left John to Christian’s care.

“What’s happening?” Asked John weakly.

“You’re sick, that’s what’s happening. Your body is shutting down, running a fever, probably an infection or two, and I wouldn’t mind betting that you’ve got pneumonia. Greg told me you’ve been out with him. You tell me what’s happening John,” responded Christian.

“ _Everything_ reminds me of him. This room, those girls, everytime I go outside that door I’m reminded that this is a world without Sherlock Holmes, and it’s so hard to breathe, to live to will my heart to keep going without him,” replied John, tears sliding down his cheeks. Christian took his hand gently, rubbing his fingers over the back of John’s hand, trying to soothe and calm.

“There’s medication for this John, you know that,” added Christian, voice gentle. John broke down further, sobbing painfully, and Christian just watched on, wishing there was something he could do for his friend. A gentle tap on the door roused him, and he glanced back as Imogen opened the door.

“Mycroft is here. Do you want me to sit with John for a while?” Asked Imogen. Christian nodded, and stood up, changing positions with Imogen.

“You’re a paediatrics nurse; how did you get assigned here?” Asked Christian, brow furrowed.

“Mycroft,” she replied simply. Christian turned and headed for the living room, where Mycroft, Greg and a bundle of St Bart’s equipment, and a few other things that Christian didn’t recognise. Christian stepped forward, punching Mycroft in the face, who collapsed in seconds.

“Oi! What the hell was that for?” Demanded Greg, helping Mycroft to a chair. Christian rifled through the bags on the floor, finding a trauma pad and pressing it viciously under Mycroft’s gushing nose.

“This is your fault. John Watson-Holmes will die because you wanted to spare him from the truth. I told you this would happen, told you he wasn’t strong enough to handle this, and you ignored me and went through with this ridiculous plan anyway!” Shouted Christian.

“It was the only way to ensure the safety of not only John, but Abigail, Indigo, Violet and Jemima! Sherlock has enemies, powerful ones, and the only way to ensure that they remained safe was for Sherlock to die. You have to understand that this was important; it had to happen,” responded Mycroft thickly.

“How long is the mission?” Asked Christian, arms crossed, barely containing his anger.

“We’ve put a callout for him to return; he finished his assigned tasks two days ago, and we haven’t heard from him since. He should be back any day now,” responded Mycroft.

“Wait. You’re saying that… that Sherlock isn’t really dead?” Asked Greg.

“Yes.”

“Well fuck me. How on earth are you going to explain to John that the man that he loves is no longer dead? Better yet, how are you going to explain it to his kids?” Responded Greg, glancing up to Christian.

“I’ve got no idea how this is even going to work, but I’ve got a bloody good idea why it was Imogen who was assigned to me instead of a general nurse; you’re expecting some sort of breakdown when Sherlock returns, and you want her to handle the children while I deal with the fallout between John and Sherlock,” snapped Christian. Mycroft glanced up at him, an imperceptible nod.

“I can’t even wrap my head around this,” admitted Greg.

“Do you have any idea where Sherlock was when you recalled him?” Asked Christian.

“My intelligence has him in Serbia.”

* * *

He was stoic in the face of danger; he’d been subjected to many things in his time in Serbia, and he’d yet to break.

_Whiplash._

_Acid._

_Ice._

_Fire._

_All soul destroying to the common man._

_But not Sherlock Holmes._

_Not yet._

He loosened the ropes around his wrists, pulling away from the wooden frame that had held him hostage, grabbing the young child who’d been captured alongside him and escaping quietly as one of Mycroft’s operatives blew the joint to the sky, a wake of destruction as Sherlock pulled on a coat, limping away from the scene.

_He had to get to John._

_Abigail._

_Indigo._

_Violet._

_Jemima._

It had been a long ten months dismantling a network, but Sherlock worked thoroughly, neatly, systematically through Moriarty’s connections. The child had belonged to one of Moriarty’s minion’s, and Sherlock had found himself drawn to the little boy. Huntington had seemed oblivious to the changes around him, and after finding paperwork in Sebastian Moran’s hideout, Sherlock had soon come to realise that the child was indeed Moriarty’s child, now parentless after the killing spree he’d maintained for the past months.

_Was it guilt?_

_Betrayal?_

Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he suddenly found himself feeling responsible for the child’s welfare, and had protected him as well as he could while trying to find the final puzzle piece.

_Now he could go home._

“Home?” Enquired the young boy, and Sherlock startled, not realising he’d spoken aloud, and gently pulled the boy higher on his hip, ignoring the pain radiating from his body.

_John could fix that._

“Home, Huntington. We’re going home.”

 


	3. Homecoming

Plane trips were too long.

_Dull._

Especially when you’re dragging a four year old child along.

Even moreso when you’re suffering from grievous injury.

_Sherlock willed the plane to go faster._

_I’m coming John._

* * *

“He has a child with him,” said Mycroft in a low voice, he, Greg and Christian seated in the upstairs sitting area outside the girls bedrooms. Imogen was sitting with John in the main bedroom, day four of putting in a drip and hoping he would heal.

_Praying._

“A what?”

“A child, young boy, around Jemima’s age. Child of one of Moriarty’s men and an unknown party, and was being held as leverage against Moriarty; thank God the man had some sort of moral compass. Moran and Magnussen were part of a much bigger plan, and the boy was an unknown factor when Sherlock took on this assignment. Sherlock has the child with him, and I am unsure as to what he will choose to do,” responded Mycroft to Greg’s question.

“I don’t think John and Sherlock will be able to handle a fifth child in their house, but they’ve proven me wrong already. I’ll make sure Imogen is ready for the child, prepared for a reaction. Do we know the state of Sherlock?” Asked Christian.

“Injured, quite badly according to my sources, but he is strong willed, and wishes to return to John.”

“Do you know when he is due to land?” Greg asked.

“In a few hours or so, after dark. I’ll have one of my cars drop him here,” answered Mycroft, hangs wringing nervously. Greg reached across a laid a hand on Mycroft’s, soothing him.

“I know you didn’t want to do it this way, but maybe we can get them both through this,” said Greg softly.

“I didn’t know it would go this awry. Sherlock had planned out every step of the plan, had asked for my help, and I didn’t believe he would go through it. I thought he was just trying to get a rise out of me, and then when he’d actually jumped, I couldn’t believe he’d leave John and the girls behind,” responded Mycroft, voice tinged with hysteria.

“You did what you had to in order to protect him, and that’s admirable. He survived Mycroft, and that’s all that matters now,” replied Greg. Mycroft dropped his head, swiping at hot, uncomfortable tears before looking at his beloved.

“Yes, but at what cost?”

* * *

Sherlock was jerked awake as the plane started its descent towards the airport, and Sherlock felt his heart start to skip as he realised how tantalisingly close to John he was now. Adrenaline masked his pain as he fidgeted, Huntington sleeping in the seat next to him, the rest of the plane empty.

_Mycroft’s doing._

He’d have to thank his older brother later on, for protecting his secret for as long as he had; he’d have to actually appreciate the gesture. As the plane landed easily, Sherlock unclipped his seatbelt, rising clumsily, lifting Huntington from his seat. He protested sleepily, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder tightly as Sherlock limped from the plane, a sleek black sedan waiting for him, door open, Benjamin guarding. Sherlock nodded at Benjamin as he climbed inside the vehicle, head spinning. 

“ETA Baker Street, ten minutes.” Sherlock let his head rest back, trying to muddle through the buzzing in his brain, still clutching Huntington close, the child’s breathing reminding him of his own children.

_So close, yet so far from his own four girls._

Before he could even begin to dwell, Benjamin had pulled up alongside 221 Baker Street, turning off the engine and getting out to open Sherlock’s door. Sherlock nodded at him again, and headed for the flat, familiarity almost overwhelming, the noise in his head almost at tipping point. He climbed the stairs wearily, and pushed open the door.

“Sherlock!” Exclaimed Christian, jumping from his seat. Greg and Mycroft moved swiftly toward the younger Holmes, and Sherlock shoved Huntington at Greg before collapsing to the floor, body wracked with an exhausting seizure, Christian holding his head steady.

“There’s an extra bed upstairs in Jemima’s room; do you want to put the boy there?” Asked Mycroft nervously.

“I’ll keep him down here rather than scaring him by putting him somewhere strange,” responded Greg, swaying slightly, rocking the child.

“I think this is a stress induced seizure; wouldn’t mind betting his blood sugar is all over the place,” mused Christian. Imogen appeared, drawing the door to John’s bedroom almost closed.

“What do you need?” She asked, padding towards Christian and Sherlock.

“Blood glucose reading, and if this doesn’t settle, maybe some Lorazepam,” requested Christian. Imogen disappeared into the kitchen briefly before returning with a blood glucose monitor and a loaded syringe with the requested drug. She took Sherlock’s twisting hand, mindful of the friction burns around his wrists, and pricked his finger, watching the blood well before swiping the digit across the test strip. Imogen watched as the numbers flickered, each second watching them fall. “1.2 mM. I’ll grab a glucose dose.” Imogen ducked back into the kitchen again, returning with an orange kit. She loaded the syringe efficiently, driving it into Sherlock’s thigh.

“Let’s dose on Lorazepam anyway; we can’t wait the twenty minutes for his blood sugar to settle to rule that out,” suggested Christian. Imogen nodded, injecting the drug into Sherlock’s arm, waiting for him to settle before inserting an IV. After three or four minutes, Sherlock started to tremble less, relaxing against the hardwood floor, seizure waning.

“Mycroft, Greg, could you help me move Sherlock to the guest room? Imogen can look at the boy,” ordered Christian. Greg surrendered the child to Imogen before moving across the room to help lift Sherlock’s lanky form. Between the three men, they manoeuvred the dead weight into the guest room, where Christian cannulated him quickly, attaching him to fluids.

“How bad is he?” Asked Mycroft, voice almost breaking. Christian pulled off Sherlock’s dirty clothing, Greg helping him divest the almost ruined shirt, tossing it to the side. Sherlock’s body was covered in harsh lacerations, body too thin, some wounds still gaping. Christian seemed almost invested in Sherlock’s shoulder as he lifted it carefully, rotating the joint carefully before moving further down the injured detective. Friction burns were evident on his wrists and ankles, evidence that he had been bound at some point, and fought the restraints. He found acid burns on his thighs, dangerously close to becoming septic, and made a mental note to put Sherlock through a round of antibiotics, hoping it would be enough. Further examination produced a dislocated patella, something that was likely causing Sherlock a great deal of pain. 

_Clear signs of torture._

Christian stepped back, arms folded as he took a mental inventory, preparing himself to speak.

“He’s malnourished, underweight, evidence of ketoacidosis, his shoulder has been dislocated in the past and reset poorly, friction burns to the wrists and ankles, acid burns to the upper thighs and a dislocated patella. He’s a mess Mycroft,” snarled Christian, snagging a hospital gown out of the kit and carefully draping it on Sherlock.

“I tried to discourage him, believe me,” responded Mycroft quietly.

“Not your fault My,” whispered Sherlock.

“I shouldn’t have let you go little brother. It was dangerous, something the MI6 operatives could have handled,” responded Mycroft.

“But no-one expects the dead,” replied Sherlock wearily.

“You could have been counted amongst them,” argued Mycroft.

“And yet, I’m not. The task is finished. Please, My, I am alright,” said Sherlock softly. Christian and Greg bowed out of the room, leaving Mycroft with Sherlock.

“Rest little brother. We’ll look after everything,” responded Mycroft, a hand reaching for Sherlock’s messy curls, ones that had gotten even longer in his absence.

“Even Huntington?” Asked Sherlock sleepily, eyes drifting closed.

“Even Huntington,” reassured Mycroft gently, watching as his brother drifted off to sleep. Mycroft stayed for a few more minutes, making sure his brother was truly asleep before exiting the guest room.

“The boy is healthy. A little underweight, but mostly healthy. Based on his growth, I’d agree with the estimation of the child being around four years old, similar in age to Jemima,” announced Christian. Greg had taken the child back from Imogen, and was playing a vicious tickling game, his tiny laughter filling the loungeroom. 

“He’s smitten,” said Imogen, arms crossed across her chest. She glanced up as John’s bedroom door swung open, and John shuffled out, looking ill.

“John? Are you alright?” Asked Christian steadily.

“I… I thought I heard his voice. You said his name,” whispered John. His eyes tracked to the small boy on Greg’s lap, eyes wide at the new addition to the room. “How… how long have I been asleep?”

“Only a few days, and you’ve been awake, just not really lucid. You’d wake up, eat something and go back to sleep,” reassured Imogen.

“Then who is that child?” 

“John, sit down before you pass out,” ordered Christian, and John sat down in his chair, feeling like he was a million years old. Mycroft sat across from him, hands clasped in front of him.

_He was nervous._

“John, I’ve kept a secret from you the past few months, a secret that has kept your family safe. Now, the need to keep that secret has passed. John, Sherlock never died. He’s still alive,” breathed Mycroft.

“But he jumped off the top of a fucking hospital!” Exclaimed John.

“It looked like that, yes, but he never actually died,” responded Mycroft.

“So who’s grave have I been visiting for the past ten months?” Demanded John, all adrenaline now.

“An anonymous grave, one that was requested for this purpose. If you went back today, you’d find it no longer existed,” replied Mycroft simply.

“And where is he now? Off with some floozy in Paris?” Snarled John.

“I’m here,” whispered Sherlock, the pain in his voice evident as he struggled out to the lounge, dragging behind him the IV pole that Christian had situated next to his bed. Mycroft and Christian leapt to their feet, helping him to the lounge.

“You shouldn’t be up. I haven’t had a chance to check that dislocation,” reprimanded Christian gently.

“John was upset,” responded Sherlock tightly. John couldn’t believe his eyes.

_The wish had come true._

“Of course I’m upset! You were _dead_ , or has that fact escaped your magnificent mind?” Snapped John. Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the pain away.

“It was necessary,” replied Sherlock.

“Making me believe that you are dead is necessary? Making our children believe that they’ve been abandoned by one of their parents was necessary? London had better be falling for that reason to count,” argued John.

“Moriarty had a hit out on everyone I love; you, Abigail, Violet, Indigo, Jemima, Mycroft, Greg, Molly, even Mrs Hudson. Everyone who has any connection to me, anyone who is important had a death wish, and the only way I could ensure your safety was to fake my death, and make it seem as realistic as possible. I am sorry John,” breathed Sherlock.

“Oh God; we could have died,” whispered John, adrenaline rush falling away.

“I couldn’t lose you,” responded Sherlock. He inhaled sharply, hands fluttering to the injured flesh on his legs. Christian was in front of him in seconds, easing aside the gown to look at the angry wounds.

“That’s almost septic,” said John, voice ringing with disbelief.

_Sherlock was hurt._

_Injured protecting him._

“Sherlock, I’m going to give you a very strong dose of antibiotics to try and kill the infection, but I’m going to have to clean the wounds. Do you want to be sedated or given morphine?” Asked Christian.

“Addict, remember?” Whispered Sherlock.

“I’m not worried about that; you have John to pull you through. What I’m worried about is your pain tolerance, and whether this might be too much,” answered Christian.

“Morphine. I don’t want to sleep,” decided Sherlock.

“Imogen, can you help me do this?” Asked Christian.

“I’ll help. I want to help,” argued John stubbornly.

“We’re going to need you, so I’m not going to say no. You know how much this can hurt John, and I’m going to need you to reassure him while we work.” Christian lifted Sherlock to his feet, Mycroft beside him in seconds, and shuffled him down the hall to the guest room, Imogen and John not far behind. The excitement and anticipation having worn off, Sherlock was now gasping in pain, fighting the urge to curl up in the hopes of warding off the waves. He felt a cool, gentle hand on his head, and looked up to John’s face.

“I’m sorry love. I wish I could take all the pain for you,” said John quietly.

“I’ll be okay. Stay with me?” Asked Sherlock, voice hitching in pain.

“Always.”

* * *

Nearly two hours later, Mycroft stepped out of the bedroom first, sighing heavily before running his hands through his hair. Christian and John were not far behind him, Sherlock having fallen asleep after Christian had finished cleaning his wounds. 

“Never thought I’d see Greg like that,” commented John, swaying on his feet. Greg was asleep on the lounge, Huntington asleep on his chest, a blanket draped over them.

“Nor did I,” whispered Mycroft, heart swelling at the sight. John leaned sideways against the wall, head spinning in exhaustion.

“Time for you to be back in bed. Remember that you need rest too John,” reprimanded Christian. He assisted John back to his own bed, checking that he was settled for the night before returning to Mycroft.

“What are we going to do with Huntington?” Asked Mycroft awkwardly.

“You can leave him down here, or you can wake Greg up and take him upstairs with you. Imogen says he’s fine, but seems to be delayed in his speech. Could be the company he’s kept, or something more, but I’m not sure. I’ll consult with one of our paediatric specialists tomorrow, see if I can get one to do a home visit,” answered Christian, yawning briefly. Mycroft glanced at Greg before taking the few tentative steps toward him, shaking his partner awake.

“Gregory? You’ll be grumpy tomorrow if you sleep on this lounge. Come to bed; bring Huntington with you,” said Mycroft quietly. Greg sat up slowly, cradling the dead weight of the four year old on his chest, and smiled sleepily at Mycroft.

“You’re right love, as always. Help me up; let’s get a decent night’s sleep.”

 


	4. Huntington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget you all, I promise, but I had lost a lot of the drive for this work after a few flaming emails.  
> But, I'm back, with a fluffy chapter for you all - more action in the next!! Let me know what you think!

John woke up alone the next morning, mind muddled with the truth of the previous nights events.

_Sherlock was alive._

He got out of bed, padding out of the room and into the loungeroom, where Greg, Mycroft and Huntington were sitting, Greg and Huntington engaged in some sort of activity that John couldn’t identify.

“There’s a fresh pot of tea in the kitchen, and Mrs Hudson has offered to make breakfast in an hour,” said Mycroft, watching Greg and Hunt intensely. Christian was in the kitchen, updating medical charts as John stepped inside.

“Morning John. How are you feeling?” asked Christian, glancing up.

“A little more human. Still in a bit of shock over last night, to be honest,” admitted John, taking a seat next to Christian.

“He’s doing a little better this morning, if that helps. His fever has come down, and the wounds are looking a little less inflamed,” reported Christian. 

“Papa? Who is the boy in the living room?” asked Abigail sleepily, pulling a bowl out of the cupboard and reaching for her cereal.

“His name is Huntington, and he’ll be staying here for a while,” explained John. Before he could explain further, Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, IV pole dragging behind him. He leaned against John, stealing his mug to sip his tea. Abigail looked at her fathers, and whirled around, sprinting from the kitchen. “Abby, wait! Sherlock, what are you doing up?” asked John.

“I’ve spent months without you. I missed you,” whispered Sherlock.

“I missed you too, but now you’ve upset one of our daughters, and I’m going to need to explain to her why you’re back. Can you stay here with Christian please?” Sherlock nodded, taking John’s recently evacuated seat, and John marched out of the kitchen. Mycroft was standing, divided as to whether to follow his niece upstairs or let John handle the situation.  “You can come too; I need someone to help explain what’s going on,” demanded John. He headed up the stairs to Abigail’s room, where he found his oldest daughter throwing her belongings around her bedroom. “Abby? It’s Papa. Can I come in?” asked John, knocking on her door. She flung it open, tears streaming down her face.

“You lied. You lied to me!” she exclaimed.

“I didn’t know. I promise, I didn’t know,” explained John.

“Uncle My?”

“I’m sorry Abigail, but it was for your safety,” responded Mycroft gently.

“He promised he would never leave me, and he lied!” cried Abigail. She threw herself on her bed, sobbing wholeheartedly, and John realised that the situation would be a lot harder on their family than originally thought. He walked back out of Abby’s room, pulling the door closed and headed down the stairs, Mycroft behind him.

“How did it go?” asked Sherlock from the living room. Huntington was seated beside him, looking up at Sherlock with adoring eyes.

“Not well. Indi and Vi will be up soon, and we’re going to have to explain this to them. Mycroft, could you contact the girls schools and let them know they won’t be in attendance today? Christian, I’m probably going to need you and Imogen on hand; I’m still not feeling well, and I don’t know how they will react,” admitted John. Christian and Imogen nodded, pulling in chairs from the kitchen. 

“When do you want to do this?” asked Imogen.

“Might as well get it over and done with. I’m not even sure how I’m going to tell these girls that their father isn’t dead,” started John.

“Just tell them what you know. It’ll be a lot to take in for them anyway,” answered Imogen.

“Sherlock, I’m going to up your morphine a little; this is going to be emotional, and they’re probably going to want to hug you, to reaffirm that you’re actually alive, and it could be a little painful for you. Is that okay?” asked Christian. Sherlock nodded, extending his arm towards the doctor. John stood up, heading for the stairs, his heart heavy as he realised he would be breaking his children’s hearts once more. He knocked on Abigail’s door first.

“Abby? I’d like you to come downstairs please,” said John quietly. Abby opened her door, thunder on her face as she stormed out. Indi and Vi were easier to wake, and after they started down the stairs, John opened Jemima’s door, lifting her out of bed and taking her downstairs. Indi and Vi were huddled on the floor, both looking shocked, while Abby stood in front of them, protecting them from the perceived threat.

“Abby, sit down, please,” requested John. She sat down in the middle of Indi and Vi, allowing the twins to huddle close. John sat down in his armchair, close enough to Sherlock that he could almost reach him.

“Papa? Is Daddy real?” asked Jemima sleepily.

“Yes Puddle, he is,” responded John, kissing the top of her head.

“Can I cuddle him?” she asked. John nodded, and shifted her across into Sherlock’s lap. Jemima snuggled in close, and Sherlock wrapped a gentle arm around her.

“I missed you Puddle,” whispered Sherlock.

“You lied,” snapped Abby.

“For that, I apologise,” responded Sherlock cautiously.

“You always said that you would be there, and you would never leave me, and you did! You lied!” exclaimed Abby.

“It was for you. For all of you. A bad man wanted to take you all away from me, unless I left you, and I needed to make sure you were safe. I’m so sorry for leaving you Abby, and I promise, I won’t leave you again,” answered Sherlock. Abby broke down again, and Sherlock stretched out his free arm. Abby crossed over to him, and allowed Sherlock to pull her close, his shoulder growing wet as she sobbed against him. Indi and Vi headed for John instead, wishing for his more familiar comfort. John leaned back in his armchair, weary of the emotion, and closed his eyes for a moment.

 

When he awoke, he found Christian and Imogen peering over him, and realised he was on the floor.

“What happened?” asked John blearily.

“I think you fainted. Because you were sitting up, and Indi and Vi were on your lap, you couldn’t correct yourself, so you stayed unconscious. Are you feeling alright?” responded Christian. 

“I’m tired,” replied John.

“That’s to be understood. You and Sherlock both need time to heal. You rest up; Mycroft and Greg can handle the children for a while,” suggested Christian. He and Imogen helped John to his feet, and shuffled him to his bedroom. Sherlock was already waiting for him, stretched out on their impossibly large bed. John lay next to his husband, carefully shuffling close, and Sherlock wrapped an arm around him. Christian and Imogen excused themselves, and Sherlock and John found themselves finally alone.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” whispered John, laying a gentle hand on Sherlock’s cheek.

“Either can I. I would think about you every time I could, to remind myself why I was putting myself through such pain. You were my rock through all of this John,” responded Sherlock. John felt a tear slide down his own cheek, and brushed it aside.

“I didn’t know how I was going to go on without you, and I was getting sick; even Puddle could see I wasn’t well.”

“I’m so sorry I put you through that John, and I wish i could have told you what the plan was, but I needed you to believe that I was really dead, so I could finish off the rest of Moriarty’s team. And I never expected to come back with Huntington,” answered Sherlock remorsefully.

“What are we going to do about him? I mean, we can fit in a fifth child, but I don’t know how you would feel about that,” explained John.

“I know he’s not a puppy to hand out, but we already have four children John, and I don’t know how we would handle a fifth in that mix, let alone one who is partially deaf.” John hesitated for a moment, looking at Sherlock.

“He’s.. he’s deaf?” 

“Partially. Did you not notice the way he observes everyone when they speak?” responded Sherlock. John rolled over, turning his thoughts around in his mind.

“Does Christian know this?”

“I don’t believe he does, no, but Lestrade knows British Sign Language. He’s been communicating with the boy. Albeit with a little difficulty, as the child’s knowledge of BSL is limited, however, more communication than I have been able to establish,” explained Sherlock.

“I think Mycroft and Greg could benefit from someone younger in their home. Greg has always wanted children, and Mycroft just doesn’t know how to tell Greg that he does too. I think Huntington will be good for them, and I’m sure we could get him into the same nursery school as Puddle. We can handle this Sherlock, we always do,” replied John sleepily.

“I love you John.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

When John next woke up, he was feeling more refreshed than he could remember, curled up next to Sherlock, a comforting arm around him. He could hear Greg and Huntington in the living room, Jemima with them, and Mycroft upstairs, voice floating through the floor. He rolled out of bed carefully, padding out into the loungeroom. Greg was on the floor with Puddle and Huntington, reading a book to them. John took his seat in his armchair, observing Greg with the pair.

“You know, I didn’t know that you knew BSL,” commented John.

“Learned it a few years ago when one of the squad lost their hearing, and we learned it with them. Jemima knows it too, from nursery school. We’ve been reading and signing this book together. She’s pretty good at it John,” replied Greg, setting the book between the pair.

“You know, Sherlock and I were talking, and we agreed; with our family the way it is right now, we don’t think we could take on an extra body, especially Huntington. However, we did think that perhaps it would be something you and Mycroft would like to do? You’ve both bonded well with the boy, he’s happy, he can communicate, I think you’d both make excellent parents…” Greg raised a hand to silence John, and glanced up at his best friend.

“We were already going to ask you and Sherlock if you would mind. He’s a gorgeous little boy, reminds me of the son I didn’t get to raise,” admitted Greg. John’s heart broke as he remembered that Greg’s own kids had been removed from him by his wife, and he hadn’t seen his children for over eight years, a burden he usually kept hidden from the world at large.

“I am sorry Greg. I didn’t think,” responded John.

“It’s okay. I miss Laura and Henry every day, but I’ll survive. I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I? It’s just, Henry was Huntington’s age when Mary decided she’d had enough, and she left. I’m a cop John, and I couldn’t even find her or the kids. Mycroft couldn’t even find them. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I won’t see my kids again, but that doesn’t stop me wanting more. I just… I don’t know if Mycroft wants this as much as he’s letting on,” replied Greg. He wiped away a tear he didn’t realise had fallen, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you felt that strongly about children. Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Mycroft, pulling Greg up to sit on the lounge.

“I didn’t want to force the situation. I was happy with you, and I didn’t want to lose that by asking for kids,” admitted Greg, voice hitching. Mycroft laid a gentle hand under Greg’s chin, lifting his face up so he could look into his eyes.

“I love you, you silly man. Did it ever occur to you that I felt the same way?” asked Mycroft. Greg shook his head.

“No,” he whispered.

“I knew how you felt about Laura and Henry and how Mary had just taken them away from you, and I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to be a father figure to someone else until you were ready. Are… are you ready?” asked Mycroft gently. Greg nodded, leaning against Mycroft as he watched Huntington play with Jemima, the pair conversing in sign language. Mycroft wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“John, would you mind if we stayed here for a few more days? I have preparations that need to be put in place, and I feel that perhaps Huntington would benefit from the exposure to other children,” commented Mycroft. John nodded.

“It’s fine. I could do with the extra eyes at the moment. Actually, is there any chance you could take the girls out? See if Molly and Mrs Hudson want to take Abby, Indi and Vi on a girls outing, and you and Greg take Huntington and Puddle out somewhere a little more age appropriate,” suggested John.

“We could do that tomorrow, if it works for Molly and Mrs Hudson. Is everything okay?” asked Mycroft.

“I just want to be able to talk to Sherlock, without fear of our children overhearing something they don’t need to know. If you don’t want to, that’s okay. We can wait until they’re asleep,” decided John.

“No, John, we can take them, don’t worry. You and Sherlock need a bit of time to reconnect, especially after the fact he’s been gone for so long,” responded Greg. 

“Thank you.”

* * *

“We’re going out with Aunty Molly and Nanna Hudson! We’re going to have tea,” sang Abigail, curtseying in the middle of the living room in a pink tulle dress. Indi and Vi had picked completely different dresses for a change; Indigo had picked a purple dress, the skirt full with ruffles, a thick white ribbon around her waist, matching bow in her hair, while Violet had picked an emerald green number, no ruffles, but plenty of lace, and a matching white ribbon like her twin. John snapped a photo of the three, enjoying the sound of their laughter, something he hadn’t heard in the months while Sherlock had been missing. Mycroft watched the whole affair with a satisfied grin on his face; Anthea had chosen their outfits well. His own clothes reflected the casual nature of their outing; he’d opted for slim jeans and comfortable converse, with a long sleeve buttoned shirt and a sweater vest over the top. John thought he looked rather fatherly as opposed to pure government.

_After all, Mycroft was the British Government._

“We’re taking Jemima and Huntington to the fair, let them exhaust themselves before we bring them home. Greg is getting them dressed now.” Jemima tore down the stairs, dressed in leggings, silver sparkly converse shoes, and a sparkled top to match, and a long, bright pink cardigan over the whole ensemble to keep her warm. She zoomed around the living room before Mycroft caught her, tickling her violently. She giggled, batting away her uncle’s hands.

“Calm down Puddle. Where’s Uncle Greg and Huntington?” Asked John, grinning at his youngest.

“He’s helping Hunt. He said he would be down shortly,” answered Jemima breathlessly. Greg appeared, Huntington in front of him, and carefully walked down the stairs, the youngster a little less confident after being knocked down a few hours earlier; Violet had pushed him out of her way in an effort to get past, and he had taken a tumble down the steps. Christian and John had pronounced him fine, but he was still overly cautious. Greg had dressed him in his own pair of Batman themed converse sneakers, denim jeans, and a Batman shirt. He had a bright blue cardigan over the top, one that was buttoned incorrectly.

“Gregory, you can’t expect our son to go outside like that,” scolded Mycroft.

“He wanted to do up the buttons himself; don’t blame me. I helped him tie his shoelaces, and that was it. You fix it,” responded Greg. Mycroft motioned for Huntington to come over to him, and signed to him briefly, before stretching his hands out to fix the mismatched buttons.

“Of course Mycroft has learned BSL,” muttered John.

“He’s getting a tutor in for you and the girls; he’s decided that if Huntington is going to be part of the family, we are all to learn. We’re also seeing a paediatric audiologist in a few weeks, to see how we can better accomodate him. Christian recommended him, gave him a top review,” added Greg. A knock on the door echoed through the apartment, and as the door opened to reveal Molly and Mrs Hudson, Jemima squealed in excitement.

“God, please, take them away,” begged John, mock distress on his face.

“Alright, we’re going. Come on, let’s go!” Greg grabbed Huntington’s hand and swung him up on his hip, while Mycroft picked up Jemima. The outing thundered down the stairs, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

_Now to look after his own husband._

He could hear him in the bedroom, rustling bedsheets, until he heard a thud.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?”

 


	5. Time Heals Everything

John walked into the bedroom to find Sherlock on the floor, tangled in his blankets.

“You weren’t here,” pouted Sherlock. John laughed, helping his husband unwrap himself and get back up on the bed.

“I was waving goodbye to our children as they went out the door to have some fun, while you and I spent some time together. Is that okay?” asked John. Sherlock leaned back against his pillows, stretching out an arm for John, who snuggled up beside his husband.

“That is perfectly fine. Tell me, how have the girls been since I left?” asked Sherlock, voice rumbling.

“We’ve had our troubles. Abby, Indi and Vi refused to continue their string lessons while you were gone, and Abigail got into a fight at school,” responded John.

“What? What happened?” 

“You know, I thought you could deduce all this by yourself. You don’t need me to tell you,” responded John. Sherlock gave him a quick squeeze, warmth flooding through John as he realised that his husband was indeed home.

“Perhaps not, but I do enjoy the sound of your voice, especially after I have been deprived of it for so long,” answered Sherlock.

“Oh. Well, Abigail is definitely your daughter; her deduction skills earned her a broken nose, Indigo a punch to the face and a split lip, and Violet a Torus fracture of her arm,” replied John.

“What did she deduce?”

“That a sixth grader was cheating on her tests, and the stupid thing was, she was right, and the reason she and her sisters were punished is because the child in question is the daughter of the head of prep. Mycroft and Greg dealt with it, but they weren’t the same after that. I missed you. I needed you when that happened. I needed you everyday after you died. I didn’t know how I was going to live without you,” admitted John. Sherlock pulled him close, gently kissing his forehead.

“I missed you everyday. I fought for you every time I took down Moran, or Magnussen. I couldn’t let you know that I had died; I needed to be able to come back and tell you that I hadn’t died,” responded Sherlock. He held John close, and they stayed that way for a while, until John could hear the catch in Sherlock’s lungs.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” 

“I thought I would never see you again,” he whispered. John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock, kissing his chest as he snuggled in close.

“Til death do us part. True death, not faked,” responded John quietly. 

“Always.”

* * *

Mycroft and Greg walked through the fairgrounds, holding hands, a child either side of them. It was a picture of domestic bliss, something that Greg wished he could hold onto for a little longer. 

“What would you like to do first?” Mycroft asked Greg.

“Let’s go through some of the more sedate games first; like the clowns games,” suggested Greg. Mycroft nodded, and the small group marched over to the arcade section, a troupe of bodyguards around them. He motioned for one of the guards to move forward, and paid the vendor.

“Puddle, are you ready to play?” asked Mycroft. Jemima nodded furiously, signing at Huntington as Mycroft helped her up. She giggled through an entire round of the game, before winning a large plush Nemo fish. Huntington won the septapus Hank, and was grinning madly as they stepped down.

“Uncle My, can we go on the tea cups? Please?” pleaded Jemima. 

“Of course. Benjamin will go with you both,” said Mycroft, waving his preferred bodyguard forward. Benjamin looked nearly overjoyed at the prospect of riding with two young children, and followed them onto the ride.

“He’s perfect,” said Greg quietly.

“Greg, could you come with me for a moment please?” asked Mycroft. Greg nodded, taking Mycroft’s hand and following him through the crowd. He stopped for a moment, looking at his surroundings, before turning to face Greg.

“My? What’s going on?”

“This is the place we first met. Sherlock was causing a scene, and you contacted me as his next of kin to get permission to remove him by force and sedate him. For the next few years, we met up in a large array of places, mostly due to my brother, and had a relatively easy friendship. Then you were with Molly for a few years, trying to fill the void that your wife Mary left, and I supported you every step of the way. When that ended, we started going out for coffee, meeting up without the influence of my brother, and life has never been the same. You are a part of me, a part that I cannot imagine living without, which is why I’d like to ask for your hand.” Mycroft got down on one knee, and Greg thought he spied Anthea with a smartphone in hand, documenting the entire experience. He pulled a small box from his pocket, and lifted it towards Greg.

“Gregory Lestrade, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?” Greg inhaled sharply, looking at the man he loved as he slowly nodded his head.

“Of course I will. Yes, yes,” whispered Greg. Mycroft popped open the box, standing up and taking the ring out to place it on Greg’s finger. He wrapped his arms around his beloved as he shook with repressed sobs, rubbing a gentle hand up and down Greg’s back to try and calm him down. Anthea turned away, giving Mycroft and Greg some space.

“I’m sorry love. I should have given you more warning,” apologised Mycroft.

“No, no it’s okay. We can be a real family,” answered Greg. Their moment was interrupted by two small bodies walking back, Benjamin behind them.

“Uncle My? I don’t feel so good,” said Jemima slowly, before throwing up on the sidewalk. Huntington followed suit moments later, and Mycroft found his arms full of crying children. 

“Oh dear. Benjamin, could you bring the car around please? Greg, could you grab Huntington, reassure him please, and Anthea, would you be so kind to call John and let him know we are coming back early please?” Anthea nodded, stepping away from the crowd. Greg lifted Huntington carefully, cuddling him close as the boy sobbed against his chest, clearly feeling miserable. 

“John says he expects you back shortly. Shall I get you a bucket and towels for the trip back?” asked Anthea.

“Please. Come on Puddle, let’s get you home to Daddy and Papa.”

* * *

John bustled around the flat, preparing Jemima’s nursery space for two potentially sick children, making sure the TV was plugged in and a stack of DVDs ready for viewing. He pulled back the blankets on both beds, while Sherlock puttered behind him.

“How sick is she?” fretted Sherlock.

“I don’t know; for all I know Mycroft could be overreacting, but I’d much rather be ready than not,” responded John. He marched back down the stairs, into the kitchen to make sure they had plenty of supplies for two potentially sick children. His phone jangled on the bench, and he picked it up with practiced ease, sliding it between his shoulder and ear as he filled the kettle.

“John speaking.”

_“John, it’s Molly. I’m so sorry, but I think we need to bring the girls home.”_

“Is everything okay?”

_“Indi and Vi seem to be running a fever, and Abigail looks like she’s about to pass out. I’ve sent Mrs Hudson to Mrs Turner’s place; I was worried about whether they were contagious or not. Is Mycroft about? I’m probably going to need a lift back.”_

“I’ll get onto him now. Call me if anyone gets any worse.” John hung up, and vaulted his way back up the stairs, Sherlock trying to keep up with him.

“What’s going on?” demanded Sherlock.

“Call your brother, tell him he needs to pick up Molly and the girls,” ordered John. Sherlock huffed, pulling out his phone to call his brother. John shuffled into Abigail’s room, turning down her bed and making sure her laptop was set up on her bedside table. He ducked into Indi and Vi’s room next, making sure beds were ready, and their TV was set up, their own movies ready to go. Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the twins room.

“Mycroft is already swinging past to pick them up. What can I do?” asked Sherlock.

“Relax, lie down for me? If the girls are sick, you’ve already got a compromised immune system, and I don’t want you getting sicker,” responded John, taking Sherlock’s hand gently in his. 

“What about you? You’re sick too,” protested Sherlock.

“I’ve had a lot more experience working when I’m sick, and my immune system was built for this, trained for this. Yours has just spent months being tortured, emotionally and physically. Christian will be coming over with Imogen to help out, and make sure everyone is getting enough rest,” reassured John. Sherlock nodded, following his husband down the stairs and into their bedroom. He lay down on the bed, pulling his tablet across. John kissed him on the head as he heard the door to the flat open.

“Promise me you’ll get some rest too?” John nodded as he walked away.

“Of course ‘Lock.” He walked into the living room to find Imogen and Christian waiting patiently.

“Where are our patients?” asked Christian.

“Not home yet. At first I thought it was Mycroft being panicky, but then Molly called, and said the twins and Abby weren’t well either, so thought we better call in the troops. They should be here in a few minutes. Is there anything I need to get for them?” asked John.

“No, Imogen’s got it covered. Have you prepared their bedrooms?”

“It’s done. Sherlock’s in bed resting.” He heard the front door open, and Jemima’s wails carried up the stairs as John and Sherlock’s extended family traipsed inside. 

“What on earth happened?” asked John. Jemima stretched out for John, hiccupping and sniffling as he took her from Mycroft, lifting up her shirt so Christian could listen to her chest. She wailed and buried her head in John’s neck as Christian pulled away.

“John, are they vaccinated?”

“Of course. Why?”

“It’s chicken pox,” responded Christian. He stepped aside to look over Abby, while John looked at Jemima’s chest, coated in red papules. He glanced over at Imogen, who was checking Indigo and Violet. She shook her head.

“Same over here John. Looks like you’ve got a case of chicken pox on your hands,” added Imogen.

“What about Abby?”

“Looks like the same. Sometimes it happens John. It looks like Abby might have the worst of it, and the others might be milder cases. Let’s get them in bed, get some calamine onto those rashes, and keep them comfortable while we ride this out. I would like to keep a closer eye on Abigail though,” murmured Christian.

“I don’t think Huntington has been vaccinated. I mean, we don’t really know, and there’s no way to access his files,” commented Greg. Christian took Hunt from him, lifting up his shirt and looking at his chest.

“I think he’s had it before,” remarked Christian.

“I’ve only ever seen secondary cases in immunocompromised patients. He’s only been here a week; we have no medical history for him. It’s a possibility,” responded John.

“Could be the reason why he’s deaf,” realised Christian.

“Could also be the reason why he’s the quietest out of the lot of them. It’s like he knows what’s in store for him.”

“Right. Everyone else can voice when they’re not feeling well; because Hunt can’t hear, and doesn’t speak, he gets two hourly checks for a while to make sure he’s okay. Let’s get them in bed and resting, see what we’ll be up against.” John headed up the stairs, his other three daughters trailing behind, Christian and Hunt bringing up the rear. Jemima’s room was first, and John put his daughter on the bed, swiftly changing her into her Finding Dory pyjamas before tucking her under a blanket, Dory and Nemo her new companions. Greg followed them in as Christian left to check on Indi and Vi, and looked at his soon to be son.

“He looks miserable,” commented Greg, pulling off Huntington’s sweat and vomit soaked clothes, and tucked him into his own orange pair of Finding Nemo pyjamas, his new stuffed septapus Hank tucked in next to him. John inserted the double length DVD of both underwater movies, and hit play, making sure he checked that Huntington’s temporary hearing aids were turned on to the hearing loop. Huntington pulled at his ears, the aids uncomfortable, and Greg pulled aside his hand.

“He’ll adapt to them. For now, they’re only a temporary measure until the audiologist can determine what will work best for him. Once they determine what’s best, you and Mycroft can argue over the cost of what you’re really going to spend on your son,” replied John.

“He can have anything he desires. Do you mind if I stay in here for while? I’m worried about him,” fretted Greg.

“Of course. Keep an ear out for Jemima, and I don’t mind what you do. I’d stay with my kids too, but I’ve got Sherlock to look out for as well. Stay for as long as you like,” responded John. Greg nodded, kicking off his shoes and laying on the bed next to Huntington as the opening credits to Finding Nemo started. John stepped out of the room and around the corner into Indi and Vi’s bedroom. Both were already asleep on their beds, the opening credits barely finished on Frozen. John turned off the TV before tiptoeing back out of the room, pulling the door almost closed. Christian was still in Abby’s room with her, giving her a thorough checkover.

“Is she alright?” asked John quietly.

“She’s running a fever, and she’s dehydrated, but she’ll be fine. It’s just chickenpox John. She’ll get through it, just like every other child,” Christian reassured.

“Well, at least we can cross that milestone off the list.”

* * *

_Nine months later, Mycroft and Greg tied the ceremonial knot, Huntington their ring-bearer and officially their son._

 

_Abigail, Indi, Vi and Jemima were all in the ceremony, matching dresses for the flower girls._

 

_Sherlock and John couldn’t be happier for them, pride swelling in their chests at their perfect family._

 

_Life couldn’t be better._

 

_Or could it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it ended here. I've got plans for so much more, but I feel like I need to leave Sherlock and John where they are - in the happy ever after they deserved chapters ago.


End file.
